Never Forget
by J. Riley
Summary: Holocaust AU told through journal entries written by Niall and Zayn who are prisoners in a concentration camp. Ziall and Larry are mentioned. Warnings for character death and mentions of rape.


Louis hand trembles slightly as he opens the small, ragged booklet that he's holding. His old age has finally caught up with him, and he's reading this one last time, though he's read it many times before. He remembers everything clear as day—how could he forget? He takes a deep breath, and begins to read…

_November 23, 1942  
_It's our first day here at Auschwitz. I'm not sure what I was expecting, but I know this is far worse than anything I could have imagined. Every single one of these bastard Nazis give me the creeps, and I'm absolutely terrified to be here. We're in the barracks right now, and it's so dark I can barely see to write. I can't help but touch my number sometimes—193226—and I'm fairly certain that's not a healthy thing.

I should probably start from the beginning. The train ride is a good start, so I'll start there. The car I was in was so crowded that I could hardly breathe. It was full of men and teenage boys, and I couldn't move around at all. Even though it was freezing cold outside, everybody was sweating and panting. We couldn't move around to take our coats off—we couldn't even move enough to push the sleeves up a bit. I was lucky; I was close to one of the opened windows, so the cold air got to me enough to keep me from passing out. There was an elderly man who was standing near the middle. He fell, and the other men around him had to take turns holding him up. When we got to this hell hole, we found out he was dead.

They took us to the showers as soon as we got off the train. They cut our hair—awfully, mind you—and took our clothes. The only reason why I have this booklet is because I found it on the ground. I honestly don't know why I'm even writing in it. Anyway, when we stepped into the shower room, we were all naked. It was a concrete cell, basically, big enough that the hundreds of us who were there were able to crowd inside. The guards closed the doors behind us, and all that was in the room was the shower heads, and us prisoners. We didn't know what to expect, and my mind was racing because Mum used to tell me stories while we were still hiding that Hitler—the dictator who started all of this—was able to gas people in large rooms. That's all that I could think about at the time.

All of us were huddled together, trembling and wide-eyed, obviously frightened. When they turned the shower heads on, everyone started screaming. The water was cold, and they left us in there for so long that people were turning blue and everyone's trembling got worse. When we finally got out, we were given these (striped) pajama uniforms and they lined us up outside to get our names and ages.

We were loaded into these barracks long enough to figure out which bunk we planned on sleeping in. Then we were sent back out to get our jobs. I was given the job to shovel snow with Zayn—he's my best friend, and I don't know how I got so lucky to find him again. I haven't seen him for three weeks, since we were captured. He told me he thinks he was sent to Bergen-Belsen, but he's not too sure. I'm so glad he's alive. Turns out we were placed in the same barrack, so that's even better than anything I hoped to have being here.

There's this one boy here, I haven't learned his name yet, but he seems very nice. He's almost… gentle with this other boy with green eyes. I'm not one to judge here, but they are very close—_very _close. The one is obviously older than the green-eyed boy—I'd say he's about twenty, maybe twenty-one. I could be wrong, though. He has blue eyes.

We're not allowed to talk at night, but I can hear some of the men around me whispering to each other. It's all heartbreaking stories—some of their children were slaughtered, wives and girlfriends taken from them. One man, who told us his name is Olek, says the Gestapo who came to his ghetto beat his wife to death in front of him and shot his six-year-old son in the street.

The men who run this… nightmare… are awful, awful people. I'm genuinely terrified for my life here. I don't know what to expect from them; I don't know what they expect of us. There's a boy in the bunk above me who sounds no older than fourteen; looks it, too. I don't know how he wound up in here, but I'm guessing he'll be gone within a week. They won't keep him alive for very long.

I don't want to be here. I want to go home…

_November 28, 1942  
_I haven't been able to write in a few days. These bastards have been working us harder, and I've been given a new job. I was taken from snow duty to the crematory. I hate it. The smell, the looks that are frozen onto some these poor faces… I can't handle it. I hate it. You don't know how badly I want to sob with every new body that gets brought in. I don't know any of their names, but I know they have names. I know they're still _people_. I know they had feelings and families, and they felt pain in their final moments. Some of them come in with bullet holes in their heads or riddling their bodies, while others come in with nothing but horrible rashes or bruises or broken bones protruding. Most of them starved to death, though.

I haven't eaten in days. Since I got taken off snow duty, I can't keep an eye on Zayn. Every time there's a new load of bodies brought in, I hold my breath and steel myself up because what if Zayn's in there? What if Zayn's one of the naked, broken people I have to put in the fire? I don't want that to happen… We don't get fed until night, and since Zayn's out in the cold all day I give him my food so he can put on weight to stay warm. It's not a lot, but it's more than he'd get on his own. I'm trying to save him here. He doesn't like it—always argues with me when I put most of my bread into his bowl—but I never take it back and he eventually gives up.

I found out the name of those two boys. The blue-eyed one is Louis. He's twenty and apparently "friends" with one of the bastards who works here. I really don't trust any of those men, but I will admit that the one he supposedly knows has a kind face. He sort of looks like a puppy, and I've never seen him scream or beat any of the other inmates. I once saw him help a man who had fallen back to his feet. I don't know about him… His name is Liam.

The other boy is Harry; he's only eighteen. During mealtime he tells jokes—lame jokes, but they're still jokes—and helps some of the sick men climb up to their bunks if they're too high up for them to get to on their own. He was also given a new duty—he won't tell us, so it must be bad. He has dimples.

The man who bunks next to me was sent to the crematorium today. He used to whisper stories about his mum and dad before we'd fall asleep. He was a nice man, with a gentle smile and kind eyes. I think he was in his thirties. I couldn't look at him as he burned.

_November 31, 1942  
_The boy who bunked above me was only sixteen-years-old. He was shot today. I got sick and couldn't watch him burn.

_December 2, 1942  
_I was put back on snow duty, since I can't handle the crematorium job. I thought for sure they'd kill me if I couldn't do the job, but they spared me this time and sent me back out in the snow. Zayn and Louis are still there. Louis's looking rough. I think he was beat up sometime the other day. It looks pretty bad, but he says he's okay… I don't think Harry believes him, but he can't exactly baby him, otherwise these bastards will know something's up, and that will be a disaster…

_December 6, 1942  
_Louis' eye is still swollen, but he's looking better. I guess Harry gave up his spot on the bunks so he could bunk beside Louis. I think that's kind of sweet. I'm not sure if they've known each other for a while, or if they've only met because of this place or what, but they're attracted to each other. It's plain to see. They're definitely reckless.

I've always know that I'm attracted to men—this is nothing new to me. Neither are my feelings for Zayn. I've known that I love him since… God, I'm not even sure how long. I don't think he knows. I _want _to tell him, but now really is not the time. Clearly we aren't meant to be, if we're in here, trapped and being used as animals, right? Maybe in a different life… As long as he's alive and well and I can help keep him safe, I'm happy. I'll do everything I can to keep him safe. I can promise anybody who asks.

It's getting colder. It's been snowing a lot more, and even while we're shoveling at it, more comes down to cover the spots we've cleared. All of this work is for nothing, really. I wonder if they know that. They probably do. They're probably just trying to get the most out of use before we kick the bucket. Bastards.

We don't have any heat in the barracks and our blankets are thin and have holes. I can hear and feel the others shivering—and I'm shaking myself, and I'm sure my handwriting is good enough evidence to back that up. I probably won't be able to read this part when I go through this.

It's so cold it _hurts_. I think I'm done writing for the night.

_December 8, 1942  
_They're sweeping the barracks, I think. I heard there was an outbreak of lice in one of the other barracks, and they burned it to the ground with the women still inside. Louis says that Liam didn't have anything to do with it. I don't know if I believe him.

_December 9, 1942  
_Zayn got beat up today. I don't know when or who did it, and he won't tell me, but they got him pretty bad; he's got bruises all over his body and a busted lip. I hate it here. He keeps shaking. I think they didn't just beat him up—I think they scared him while they did it, and that's worse than just getting a beating, if you know what I mean. Pete, the boy who bunks next to me, let Zayn have his spot today. I held him until he fell asleep.

Apparently Liam's taken over the feeding for our barrack, so we've all been given extra food since Louis's in here. I still gave Zayn most of mine, but I got more today than I've been eating. My stomach always hurts, and my ribs are starting to stick out. I'm sickly, I know it, but as long as Zayn keeps looking at me with that gorgeous smile on his face, I'm happy…

_December 9, 1942  
_I was put back on crematorium duty. Six men were shot today, apparently because someone stole some stale biscuits. I guess these bastards were trying to guilt someone into taking the blame, but no one did. I hear they're planning on gassing another barrack tomorrow.

I don't know what to write. More and more spaces in the bunks are empty. We're losing men. I just want to go home.

_December 10, 1942  
_Some more prisoners were brought in. They were all gassed.

_December 12, 1942  
_I think I'm getting sick. I feel so weak and I can barely lift the bodies anymore. Zayn's okay. Louis thinks I'm just not getting enough to eat—but none of us are, and I'm really the only one sick in our barrack, so that can't be it. He told Liam somehow, so I got extra food. Most of it went to Zayn, of course.

_December 15, 1942  
_The extra food hasn't worked. The guards are giving me dirty looks. I think they know I'm sick. I'm waiting for my death now.

_December 16, 1942  
_Still alive. Zayn knows I'm sick now. He told me he loved me today. When no one was looking, we kissed. I'm happy, but if he gets sick, I don't know what I'll do. I'll hate myself.

_December 18, 1942  
_Louis must have told Liam that I'm still sick. He pulled me aside during duty today and took me 'round back of the crematorium, where there weren't any other guards, and gave me some medicine. He's breaking a lot of rules by helping us, and he could get himself killed. I respect him for this, I think. He's a pleasant person, actually—kind and polite, sensible. I don't know why he's working with these bastards. He should be working some place more… pleasant, happy. He shouldn't be here, where he's surrounded by death and torture. He shouldn't be working with men and women who gladly rip out the souls of all of these innocent people, as though they've done wrong, when all we've done is… _live. _

_December 19, 1942  
_I'm getting worse. I move too slow. I've been beaten twice already for not working fast enough. I know I'll be dead soon. It's inevitable, honestly. Zayn keeps telling me that I'll be okay, I'll get better, we'll survive this, but I don't think I will. Zayn will, though. He's strong.

Liam pulled me aside again today while I was working. He won't tell me what medicine he's giving me. It's probably poison. I kind of hope it is. I don't think I can handle much longer working at the crematorium.

_December 20, 1942  
_Olek was brought into the oven-house today. I don't want to think about it.

_December 21, 1942  
_Wilhem, one of the older men in the bunk above me, says the war should be over by Christmas. He's not Jewish, so he believes that Jesus will help him get out because he believes in Him. I don't know, though. I don't think it'll be over for a long time…

Harry was given crematorium duty today. He got beat up this morning pretty bad, so he can't see out of his left eye—one of the men in our barrack is a doctor and says he'll probably never get his sight back. He threw up as soon as he put his first body in the oven. Poor lad. I kind of hope he doesn't get his sight back. I don't want him to have to see the full horror of the crematorium…

Liam gave me another dose of medicine and told me to do the best that I possibly can. I think I can trust him—I think. His eyes are too kind for him to be a cruel monster like the others. He's still giving us extra food. He even gave me some snacks at the end of the day to take back to some of the other lads in the barrack. He's going to get himself in a lot of trouble, and it's going to be bad…

Still no heat, and Liam says it'd be too noticeable to bring thicker blankets with him at feeding time. God, I feel like I'm some kind of animal calling it that… like a cow or something. An elderly man who slept three people away from me died out in the snow today. He was so thin…

Zayn's doing all right, thank God. He kissed me again today. Wilhem saw, but he didn't say anything. I think none of us mind anything anymore. This war has changed us all. For instance, today I glanced out the window of the oven-house and saw some of the guards kicking a female inmate on the ground. They kicked her in the head and shoved her face in the snow, and none of the other inmates who were standing around tried to help her. I know there wasn't much they could have done for her, but they didn't even _look _at her. It was like she wasn't even there to them. I wonder if that's how everyone else sees us who are in here—I wonder if the people who are free, who aren't Jewish or Gypsies or homosexuals or burdens to society even think about us, the ones who are innocent but are trapped within these gates and fences and walls, beaten and neglected. I wonder…

The woman couldn't get to her feet when the men were done with her. She was among the bodies that came in today. I had to put her in the oven.

_December 24, 1942  
_Looks like we won't be getting free for Christmas.

_December 27, 1942  
_I can hardly write right now. I'm shaking so much. I had been on my way to the oven-house when three officers called me over to them. They had these terrifying smirks on their faces and I thought for sure they were taking me somewhere to kill me. I sent an apology to Zayn in my mind. I wish they would have killed me…

They took me inside one of the empty barracks, and one of them stood guard at the door—I'm guessing to make sure nobody tried to get in—while the other two shoved me to the ground. They kept calling me these awful things while they took my clothes off. I didn't dare struggle, but it was not willing. I was crying when one of them shoved himself down my throat and choked me, and the other got me from behind. It hurt, so much more than anything I've ever felt in my life. I couldn't cry because of the man in my mouth…

They didn't pull out until they were finished. I felt gross and used, and the one by the door took a turn. He was a bit gentler, almost hesitant, but he still did it and I hate him for it. They stayed with me as I put on my clothes, laughing at me and spitting on me. I was late for duty, but they gave an excuse for me apparently.

I'm scared. They promised there'd be a second time. I don't want there to a second time.

Zayn doesn't know. I don't want him to hate me…

_December 29, 1942  
_I could barely get to the oven-house today, I'm so sick.

The men from the other day didn't come for me.

I think Zayn knows I'm dying. He cried while kissing me today and held me close. I love him so much, and I hate that he'll have to be here by himself, and I hate that I won't be able to protect him…

_December 30, 1942  
_Those men came for me today. I don't want to talk about it.

_January 4, 1943 _

(Louis blinks. The handwriting is different, a little bit sloppier than before.)

I just found this little booklet the other day. I've read through it, and I can't stand it. I cry every time I think about that little snowflake. I realized Niall was the one who was writing in this as soon as I saw my name.

It hurts. On New Year's, Niall got so sick that he fell in the snow and couldn't get back up. He tried and tried, but he couldn't do it. They shot him. Right in front of me.

I loved him. I loved him so much. I wish he'd have told me sooner. I wish we could have gotten away from all of this. We could have gone to America or somewhere. We could be safe and happy and he'd still be here.

I don't want to go on without my snowflake. I want to join him, but he gave so much to keep me safe and alive that I can't just give up. I have to keep pushing forward, I have to survive this and make it home. I have to do it for him.

(Scribbled at the bottom of the page is this: _Niall James Horan, September 13, 1922—January 1, 1943. _Louis tilts his head to the side, studying the handwriting. It must be Zayn, he thinks. His heart aches for the poor lad, and for the poor Irishman who originally owned this booklet. He continues reading, as much as it pains him.)

_January 7, 1943  
_Louis told me that Liam's given him an escape plan. Liam's been giving us even more food, and he's always whispering to Louis behind buildings and barracks. I've never trusted this Liam man, and I can't help but think that he was actually poisoning my Niall. But nothing will bring him back. I also can't trust this escape plan because, who's to say that Liam won't turn on us and we'll both be killed? Then what? I don't want to be one of the nameless who go into the oven. (I cringe at the thought of Niall being put in those flames and erased from the world—but never from my mind or my heart.)

Louis told me about the plan. It's risky—sneaking out at night. Louis says that Liam will help us get out of the gates, but once we're out we're on our own. It doesn't make sense, because the nearest shelter is miles away, and there are so many guards that stand at the entrance gates that there's no way Liam can sneak us out. Louis says Liam will be bringing in uniforms that the guards wear so we can look like one of them. I don't want to. I don't want people to associate me with those bastards, even if it's only for the short amount of time for us to get out of here.

Apparently Liam plans on helping as many as he can to escape. That's so foolish of him—doesn't he realize that half of these men and women won't trust him, and the few who do might turn him in? Doesn't he realize that sooner or later he'll be caught and executed, most likely? I don't know what happens to Nazis who help prisoners… I don't think anyone knows, really, because if you're a Nazi, you're supposed to hate us. You're not supposed to help us escape from these living nightmares.

_January 8, 1943  
_Last night I had a dream about Niall. We were happy, living in America in a small house just big enough for the two of us. Our neighbors loved us, and we loved them. We lived in a nice neighborhood with kind people and fun children. We had a dog. We didn't have numbers tattooed on our arms, and we didn't have any of the scars from beatings. We didn't have any memories of this place. We were free, and always had been.

I woke up in tears during the middle of the night. I've moved back to my original bunk—I couldn't stand sleeping next to the empty space that used to be occupied by Niall. I just can't do that.

_January 9, 1943  
_A new train full of inmates came today. One of the men took Niall's spot. I can't help but hate him for it.

_January 10, 1943  
_I miss Niall so much it physically hurts.

_January 11, 1943  
_If I get beat one more time, I'm going to just beg them to shoot me…

_January 12, 1943  
_Louis says Liam will help us out in two weeks. That's a long time away, really, if you think about it. We could be dead by then. I guess I can't be too upset about it, though—I mean, at least he's trying to help us get out of here. Liam seems trustworthy, especially since he's giving us extra food that hasn't poisoned us. I don't think he was poisoning Niall. I've seen him help a few other prisoners when he thinks no one's looking. That must mean he truly cares and wants to help, instead of just helping us because of Lou, right?

_January 13, 1943  
_I saw Liam crying today. Louis says he had to shoot an inmate today for trying to escape. When Liam came in to feed us there was a note in my bowl. It said: "I know you don't trust me, but I promise you I'll get you out of here."

_January 14, 1943  
_Liam took me behind the barrack today. He apologized for what happened to Niall and said he had been doing his best to keep him safe, had kept telling his coworkers that Niall was helpful to the labor he was doing, but nobody listened to him after he fell. He gave me a small chain, and told me that he got it from Niall's clothes before he was burned. I don't quite believe him.

_January 16, 1943  
_Liam slipped another note in my bowl today. He said that our escape date will have to be February 2, because that's a day he doesn't have night duty. He said he'll explain more to Louis tomorrow morning and Louis will explain to me and Harry, and if I still have questions to come find him and he'll explain in detail the day after tomorrow. This is all a lot of work to free us… I don't know why Liam's doing it…

_January 18, 1943  
_Louis could not explain the plan very well. Liam said that he won't be on food duty the day of our escape, so we'll want to hide underneath the very first barrack. There's a small hole under it, and you can't see it thanks to the snow, especially at night. He said he'll hide our uniforms there, and we'll have to change there too. He'll come 'round about fifteen minutes after the outside lights come on, and he'll make sure to keep the guards away so we can crawl out and get ourselves situated. Louis, Harry and I will just have to keep quiet until he gets there. Then he'll tell a joke to get us laughing so we act normal as he takes us to his automobile. I doubt his plan will work. It's just too risky and I can't trust him completely yet. We'll just have to wait and see though.

_January 19, 1943  
_I'm still not over Niall's death. I can't believe they didn't try to help him get better. I can't believe the only one who cared was Liam. They just let him waste away…

I can't do this anymore. I need my Niall back.

_January 21, 1943  
_Twelve days until we're out of here. I've made sure that I don't make any friends because more and more people are dying. Another barrack was burned today—consumption outbreak or something, I think. Harry's finally back on snow duty. He looks so wore out and change. He won't talk about the things he saw—just like Niall. The only thing he's told me is that he had to put Niall in the oven… That's all he's said about it.

He's really skinny—we all are. I think Louis's been doing what Niall did for me. I still don't know much about those two—I know Louis likes to sing before we go to sleep, and I know Harry really likes his voice. I don't blame him. Louis's got a beautiful voice.

_January 24, 1943  
_I couldn't help but wonder if Louis and Harry are genuinely together, so I asked them today. They are—they're madly in love, and they're not afraid to admit it to anybody who asks. I wish I could have been like that with Niall… Louis and Harry are always stealing kisses behind buildings and all this stuff that me and Niall only got to do a few times.

I don't hate them for it—I could never hate them. They've been such great friends to me; they helped me put myself back together after Niall was killed, and they've been a constant, reliable support system. Not to mention they've got an escape plan and they're letting me join them. I can't thank them enough for that. I'm happy for them—I really am. I hope they both make it out of here and get to be together.

Louis told me that they won't leave me behind—said he'll cover my mouth to keep me quiet and drag me with them if I refuse. Looks like I don't have a choice in the matter…

_January 25, 1943  
_Liam beat someone today. I saw it all—the man fell, and the officers all started to laugh and taunt him to get back up. They started kicking him, and that's when Liam walked by. The others told him to beat the man since they "hadn't seen him beat anyone since he started the job." You could see it in Liam's eye that he didn't want to. He didn't hit the man nearly as hard as he probably could have, I'm sure. The other officers got onto him for being "too gentle" and beat the man themselves. They shot him afterwards.

Liam was quiet as he fed today. He gave me another note.

"I know you saw. Only eight more days, I promise."

_January 26, 1943  
_It snowed a lot again last night. The clothing we've been given to wear in the cold is too thin—our hands and feet go numb and we shiver constantly. Several of the others have died from hypothermia. It's difficult to keep pushing through like this. Seven days seems like such a long time…

_January 30, 1943  
_I was beaten twice today. Once for not shoveling fast enough, and then again for bleeding all over my clothes. The only reason why I'm still alive is because Liam saw and told the guards beating me not to shoot me. I owe that man so much…

_January 31, 1943  
_One more day in this hell hole and then we're out of here! I'm trying to keep my excitement level to a minimum because things could go wrong, and if somebody finds out we could either be turned in and killed, or they could try to join—and that's too much stress on Liam…

It's my birthday today, and we're getting out tomorrow, hopefully! My excitement can't be put into words. The only thing that would make this better is if Niall was still here.

_February 1, 1943  
_So tomorrow Louis, Harry and I will work until sundown, and then we will hide beneath the first barrack. Liam told me today that the uniforms are already there, so all we'll need to do is change as quietly as possible and then wait for him. He'll do a whistle, he says—long and low before breaking off at a high note—as he comes by to let us know he's alone, and we'll need to climb out from under the barrack and follow him to his automobile. It sounds easy, but I'm sure that actually doing the plan will be a lot more difficult.

I plan on giving this to Liam at least until we're in the clear and safe, so it won't be destroyed.

I can't wait. Final entry from Barrack 7 in Auschwitz Camp.

-Zayn Javadd Malik, born January 31, 1923

-Safe to presume dead around February 2, 1943

Louis flips through the small booklet. The rest is empty, save for the back side of the very last page. Two notes—one scribbled in Niall's handwriting, the other scribbled in Zayn's—remain on the page, the pencil lead dull and hard to read.

_If you find this booklet, you will probably burn it. If you don't and you actually read through it, you will probably laugh at my body because you are probably one of the Nazi bastards who put me here. But if you're not, do me a favor—keep this safe. I don't care if you don't know me, just keep it safe. Know what all went down in this hell hole. Never forget us. _

_-Niall James Horan, imprisoned for being homosexual in 1942 _

_Liam, _

_If you still have this, obviously I'm dead. I want you to know that I appreciate everything you've done for us because I don't have the nerve to say it to your face. But I do… Thank you. You've risked so much, and I hope this doesn't turn around and bite you in the rear. You're a good person. Don't let them change you. _

_P.S. Louis tells me your middle name is James. That's Niall's middle name, too. _

_P.P.S. Don't forget about us, yeah? Remember us. Tell your children about us someday. Just… don't forget about us. _

Memories fill Louis' mind—memories of a blonde Irish boy with blue eyes and crooked teeth who tried too hard to keep the one he loved safe. Memories of a darker boy with dark hair and dark eyes and a quiet voice who loved fiercely from a distance until it was too late to make a move, too late to save the one he loved. Memories of a cheeky brunette with green eyes and dimples a mop of curls atop his head who saw the good in everything even if it wasn't really there. Memories of a man who looked like a puppy and was far too kind to have been a Nazi but didn't have a choice—a man who had to join the Nazi party because, if he hadn't, he would have been imprisoned himself. Memories of beatings and extreme cold and dead bodies and burning flesh and the stench and the horrifying sights and the feelings of kinks in his neck from the wooden bunks they slept on. Memories of Zayn's tears and far-off stare after Niall was murdered. Memories of him and Harry and Zayn hiding beneath the barrack and changing in the freezing cold, and Liam whistling and walking them to his car. Memories of them staying in Liam's apartment after they escaped. The memory of Zayn being shot in the street by Gestapo after his identification tattoo peaked out from his sleeve in April of 1943. The memory of Louis and Harry leaving Liam a letter explaining that Zayn had been killed and they were fleeing for America.

Louis' life had been full of tragedy from the beginning, and he lived a nightmare during his younger adult years. He's never gotten over it, and he's never forgotten anyone he knew. He's reached the end of his time and he's ready—it's 1992, and he's all alone. Harry died in 1963 after twenty-one years of being together. Louis's only talked to Liam once since they left for America, and that was in a letter. (He sent Liam his telephone number in his second letter, along with his excitement at being able to afford a phone, and Liam's wife phoned him a few weeks later with the news that Liam had hung himself out of guilt from the war.)

Now that the end is getting near, Louis can only hope that it comes fast. He's tired of being alone, tired of reading through this diary again and again only to forget and repeat the process the next day. His mind is failing him, as is his heart, and when the time to go comes, he greats Death with a smile.

He's lying in his bed when it happens, and he can feel the way his heart beat starts to falter. He closes his eyes with a small smile on his lips and takes one last breath. Immediately, every ounce of pain he's felt is gone, replaced with pure happiness as he is reunited with the ones he lost. They all look the same as they did during the war, back in Auschwitz (albeit they look _healthier_) and Louis smiles when he sees them, surrounded by bright light and the overwhelming feeling of _happiness_.

Niall and Zayn are standing side-by-side, hands clasped together tightly, smiles on their faces. Liam looks at peace now, his guilty conscious wiped clean. Harry looks happy, proud, even, as he stretches a hand out for Louis to take.

"I'm glad you held on," he whispers, voice soft and rumbling from deep in his chest, just as it had the entire time Louis knew him. "I was worried you'd give up."

"Let's go home," Niall says, extending an arm towards the vastness surrounding them.

Louis takes Harry's hand and they all walk off together, peaceful and happy. In this place, wherever they are, their hell never happened. They have no scars and no tears, no pain and no worries. _They're happy._

_**FIN**_


End file.
